We stopped at a miserable
osteria, in whose cellar we found a magnificent remain of Cyclopean
architecture,--as indeed in Italy one is paid at every step, for
discomfort or danger, by some precious subject of thought. We
proceeded very slowly, and reached just at night a solitary little
inn, which marks the site of the ancient home of the Sabine virgins,
snatched away to become the mothers of Rome. We were there saluted
with the news that the Tiber, also, had overflowed its banks, and it
was very doubtful if we could pass. But what else to do? There were no
accommodations in the house for thirty people, or even for three, and
to sleep in the carriages, in that wet air of the marshes, was a more
certain danger than to attempt the passage. So we set forth; the moon,
almost at the full, smiling sadly on the ancient grandeurs, then half
draped in mist, then drawing over her face a thin white veil. As we
approached the Tiber, the towers and domes of Rome could be seen,
like a cloud lying low on the horizon. The road and the meadows, alike
under water, lay between us and it, one sheet of silver. The horses
entered; they behaved nobly; we proceeded, every moment uncertain if
the water would not become deep; but the scene was beautiful, and I
enjoyed it highly.
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